


Wasted Hours

by Fallowfield



Category: Heaven Official’s Blessing, 天官赐福 - 墨香铜臭 | Tiān Guān Cì Fú - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Beefleaf Week, M/M, Post-Canon, Shuangxuan Week, beefleaf, shuangxuan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield
Summary: He Xuan finds that he’s more comfortable with a mask than without.





	Wasted Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 of Beefleaf / Shaungxuan Week!

The lonely nature of panning the streets, sifting for gold, was existential, at best, but he’d thought it would be more of a punishment for himself than it was in reality. In an odd way, it was relaxing. Cathartic. There were absolutely no social norms to which he had to adhere, and finally having his worst fear and his greatest goal already over was freeing. It sat concretely in the past, unable to loom on the horizon any longer.

(He refused to admit he had a new, larger fear.)

That nothingness had laid out before him for so long, more vast than the heavens or earth. And thus he returned to the familiar. That would be the human thing to do. A ghost blindly feigning a human. How repulsive.

Concealing himself was the sin, and yet here he was, punishing himself by concealment. Was that atonement? A fitting punishment? Or was it hypocrisy? Further sin? Was he bound to a cursed cycle? 

He admitted he didn’t know. There was always a bitter taste in his mouth. Its own hell, perhaps. But maybe that was a selfish way to view it. The heavens didn’t appear to care about him, neither rescuing him nor condemning him. 

Their apathy towards his situation was the most disturbing. He almost wished that hell was some dramatic flourish, denied at the pearly gates, with trumpets, the fiery gazes of the gods. But here it was, a bleary rubbing of the eyes in the twilight, fading to black like the depths of the ocean.

  
  


The street was so bright, even at dusk, and his eyes hooded themselves. He guessed the sun was new to him after so long. He’d sat crosslegged for hours, watching the sun shift across the sky and down again, yanking the tablecloth off the table, the dishes tumbling to the ground.

There was a man across the alley from him, head leaning against the wall. It was clear he’d been here for a long time. He’d collected various odds and ends and arranged them around his spot. The man smiled, also clearly his habit, beckoning to He Xuan with a vague wave of his hand from across the dim street. “Play Go with me. It’s not like we have anything better to do. It’s too late for anyone to be on the thoroughfare.” His voice came, a light breeze on a sweltering day.

He Xuan squinted, disconcerted that he was noticed so easily. He guessed that the man was right. A beggar’s livelihood would be a busy street. Not that he actually cared. But he supposed he must abide by his ruse. He stood, edging out of the shadows, and walked over to sit beside his cheerful counterpart.

The man’s smile coated his words, and he was the sun they were waiting to rise. He was delighted that the dark stranger obliged. “A good samaritan just gifted me some wine. There’s no reason why I should keep it to myself.”

The stranger handed him the bottle. Plum wine. He Xuan’s hands shook. He couldn’t anticipate the closeness, the brush of his hand. “Why? You have no reason to give this to me.” He was tempted to be angry. He knew Shi Qingxuan loved plum wine. He could be savoring it, but here he was just giving it away, that unyielding smile on his face.

“There is no color in your cheeks to speak of.” Shi Qingxuan was laughing but concerned. The way the dark-eyed stranger set his hand across his face reminded him of someone, a brief shadow across the sun. The smile slightly shifted, nostalgia in his eyes, which struck He Xuan. Why wasn’t it hatred? He hesitated, but then nodded. There wasn’t a way out of taking the wine without seeming impolite.

Shi Qingxuan smiled, shuffling the pieces and laying out the worn paper game board between them. His hands were clumsy, and a few pieces slipped away, clattering on the stone. He Xuan began to react, but Shi Qingxuan waved him away, then bent and collected them again, smirking. “You know. It’s harder to use my hands these days.” An actual stranger would assume he was referring to the onset of winter. But He Xuan knew why, and that Shi Qingxuan’s legs creaked, too. He’d feel it in his own limbs if he ever felt anything at all.

He Xuan nodded absently, then took a sip, watching as Shi Qingxuan took his turn. The calculations were clear across his face, and it glinted across his eyes, twitched across his mouth. He Xuan swirled the wine over his tongue for a moment before swallowing it. “You have a terrible poker face.” He felt like his jaw was sewn shut trying to keep his anxiety in check. Why was he so nervous? But the image of him lying broken flashed across his eyes like a ghost. So he shook his head and tilted the bottle back towards his opponent.

“Oh do I?” The smile flashed again. Those eyes looked right into his, and He Xuan was expecting them to grow suspicious, for the disgust to spread, a drop of ink in water. But it never did. The eyes were a stream, clear blue, with sunlight glinting off it. He took the bottle back. “Hmm…. why would my name matter? I could say anything now and you’d never know if it was true.” He threw his head back and laughed.

Shi Qingxuan smiled, then cupped his hand to his mouth and leaned towards his ear. The voice was a playful whisper. “What if we worked together? You know. Partners.”

He Xuan felt his shoulders stiffen at the closeness. He hid the softness that came into his face and scowled. “It would mean we’d have to split everything two ways.”

Shi Qingxuan laughed. “Silly. We already beg on the same street. How would it be different? And it would mean we could combine resources.” 

“Well what would I gain from teaming with the likes of you?”

Shi Qingxuan laughed loudly, unexpectedly. “And well….” He was mimicking his tone. “The most successful beggars are those that are charismatic, you know? You may wield a good poker face but you fail at first impressions, my friend.”

The _“my friend”_ struck him. He felt a strong tug, but he wasn’t sure if it was a fear of being discovered or a desire for it. He felt sick to his stomach. He remembered that cracked face. Was he happy then? Why hadn’t it felt like anything at all? If he were being honest with himself, he would ask why he hadn’t simply disappeared. His aim had been achieved. What else was there for a dark pacing ghost?

Shi Qingxuan bent close again, cupping his hand to his mouth again and resting the other on He Xuan’s shoulder. He Xuan felt that no matter how strong he was, his image couldn’t have withstood the strain he felt, racing heart and sweaty palms. But Shi Qingxuan didn’t flinch, his breath warm in He Xuan’s ear. “Then maybe I’ll tell you my name.”

He Xuan felt his lips turn up ever so slightly, tapping the board. “Captured you.” 

Shi Qingxuan straightened, eyes crinkling with amusement, his hand lingering on He Xuan’s arm. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He Xuan huffed. “Alright.”

  
  


Every morning he saw him, the tea stopped tasting bitter, the food had flavor again. It was an affliction that made the world be in color again. See, it wasn’t the ground, or even the warmth of the sun that reminded him of life, but the wind that brought the world movement. All life is in motion.

“Sulking again, I see,” he’d say every time. But Shi Qingxuan was smiling, limping his way towards where his friend sat waiting for him. He Xuan felt a shiver down his spine, but his dark eyes flickered back up to him, and he would offer him the tea he’d made too early, and now it was cold.

At first Shi Qingxuan would ask why He Xuan insisted on leaving at night. “Why leave if you’ll just come back tomorrow?” But He Xuan wouldn’t reply, and his new friend wouldn’t press any further. Inquisitive but polite, as expected.

Before He Xuan went to sleep (or pretended to), he would feel for the fan in his pocket. He felt like it could burn him, but the burn became familiar and comforting to him. If he no longer felt the burn, it meant he was lost forever. And he didn’t really mind if he was lost forever. But he couldn’t let that happen to the fan. The spectre of misplacing the fan was his fear.

The fatigue was so much know. How could an immortal feel such fatigue? Maybe that was the nature of immortality. Gravity sat so heavily on his ribs he felt they’d collapse inward. Maintaining the façade added that much more weight, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from lying. He could have just left. Why didn’t he?

He’d considered cutting out his tongue, a mouthful of blood. He’d considered everything, but he’d done nothing. He was a man of fruitless thoughts and never action. But he was always afraid of what his actions might cause.

But that smile. Every night he considered not showing up, but always found himself waiting at their chosen spot the next morning. As long as watched pots never boil, he’d never shut his eyes. There was always tomorrow, he supposed. He discounted himself again, coughing up the flower petals.

  
  


But not all passersby were good samaritans, happy to offer wine. One morning as He Xuan approached, he saw the man kicking Shi Qingxuan, and finally, unexpectedly, he felt something bubble up within him, through the arid, cracking soil. He leapt up and shoved this man away. His face was terrifying, and his mask almost broke. He would have wondered what Shi Qingxuan thought of such violence if he’d been able to think any coherent thoughts, but instead his hand reached to draw his sword, but coming up empty, he punched Shi Qingxuan’s attacker until he stumbled to the ground in front of him.

The man wiped his nose and looked up at those dark eyes, now large waves capped with sea foam. “You’re crazy! Just another deadbeat danger to society!”

But the passion died as quickly as it came, and He Xuan was still, a deep ocean again. He didn’t want to look at Shi Qingxuan, who had propped himself up slowly, gasping in pain.

He Xuan let the tension dissolve out of his fist, his hand opening as he stared at the man. His eyes must have been terrifying, intense enough to silence the attacker. He said nothing more, staring until the attacker stood, brushed himself off, and strode away.

When He Xuan finally gathered the strength to turn to him, Shi Qingxuan looked sheepish. “Thank you.” But then he smiled wide again, and that’s when He Xuan scowled, all the lost intensity rushing back to him.

“_Why??_ Why are you still smiling??” His voice emerged biting and poison, thrashing out at the smiling beggar. “The world has wronged you!! The heavens have wronged you!! Even hell has wronged you!! Have you not more than atoned for it all? Aren’t you _angry_?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!” His voice devolved to a scream, and he knew very well that his mirage had flickered and failed.

For the first time, that smile faltered, the recognition beginning to arrive. He Xuan felt a tearing within him, as if he had a skeleton off which one could tear away the rib bones one by one, revealing his wilted, stunted heart, drowned in petals. The only sound was soft sobs.

Before Shi Qingxuan could say a word through his tears, He Xuan fled, and he was deaf to any plea that came to him once his counterpart could respond.

  
  


He Xuan watched as Shi Qingxuan lay despondent for several days. The petals in his heart were pressing against his ribs, and he felt the need to bend over and cough and cough. He pretended he didn’t know what it was telling him. _Go over to him. Find some words to say._ But he never did. 

Every morning now, Shi Qingxuan squinted up at the sun. Why did it keep rising? His Go board lay folded to his side. The dark pieces lay watching him. Why would somebody do that? Was becoming his friend just another move, another tactic of capturing his pieces? Was it just another game to him? He would have pictured him laughing at him if that were a sound that he could imagine. His limbs breaking had been nothing compared to what happened to his heart.

He Xuan told himself that if he was done here, just leave. But he couldn’t help but look. Something drew him to keep watching. And eventually, inexplicably, Shi Qingxuan began setting out the Go board again. Idiot.

Every morning now, Shi Qingxuan set out the Go board, studying it as if he were going to play. The dark pieces still sat across from him. Shi Qingxuan couldn’t help but feel a softness for He Xuan. And maybe there was a softness in him too. He knew nobody else could see it. And maybe it was the stupid, naïve nature in him, but he had a feeling that couldn’t have been all. He_-xiong_ was not that simple. If he was drawn here, maybe it wasn’t just to laugh at him. Maybe it was a matter of waiting for his game partner to return. They were tied together with some sort of thread, always fated to meet again. At least this time, he knew He Xuan would return. He couldn’t ever stay away for long. That knowledge was his gift to him.

And until that day, He Xuan watched him set it up in the morning, then fold it away as the evening approached. He wasn’t sure when he would have the courage, but he could never take his eyes away.

Without wind, there are only echoes.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter @fallofield !


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